


Wake, wake in the stillness of the night

by Maewn



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Resurrection, nb Molly but using feminine pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 01:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maewn/pseuds/Maewn
Summary: A lonely grave at the side of the road, blooming with flowers. Its occupant sleeping peacefully beneath a tapestry. Until they aren't.





	Wake, wake in the stillness of the night

**Author's Note:**

> So, long time Critter, first time writer for this fandom. It's been a while since I've seen some of the early episodes so forgive my mistakes.   
> I hope you enjoy this little foray into a what-if scenario.

There is nothing buried beneath the flowers, nothing living, nothing dead. A gentle wind stirs the grass, whispers through the air.

The night is still and quiet, the road empty of travelers.

Then something wakes beneath the earth, beneath the flowers planted by a cleric of the Wildmother. Something that claws, frantic, towards a light, towards the moon that gleams silver in night’s ebony mantle.

Gasping for air, clawed hands scrabble the dirt away and a pale face turns up towards the moon, a rotting silvery tapestry falling from slender shoulders.

“Moonweaver,” a voice murmurs, fervent and hoarse. Slowly, a tiefling clambers free of the earth, swaying as gravity reasserts its grip.

“How?” the teifling rasps and receives no answer, only the faint whisper of the wind.

Their memory is fragmented, disjointed pieces of a tale that don’t fit together the way they should.

A name clings to their mind, no, two names, woven into two very different tales, stories that do not end how the fates once decreed they would.

They, he, **_she,_** are one and separate. She is them and they are she.

She is Molly, she is Lucien, she is neither.

A coat, one she recognizes, is still there, still whole as the day that she saw the glaive come down and she tumbled into the darkness of the Raven Matron’s care.

She carefully takes it in her hands, swings it over her shoulders, arms in through the sleeves, sighing at the warmth. Her swords are just the same, beautiful carnival glass that gleams wonderfully in the light of the moon.

The Moonweaver saved her, she thinks suddenly, and offers a prayer up, hoping that her friends are safe.

How long has it been since…and she remembers the sharp silver of the glaive as it came down, the look of satisfaction on Lorenzo’s face as he…as he…

_Killed her._

She freezes for a moment, caught in the memory.

 _“Fuck you!”_ she remembers spitting in his face, defiant to the last, hoping that Beau got away.

She turns towards the road, awash in moonlight, a glowing trail leading north. To Hupperdook, she thinks.

A city that parties as hard as it works.

She remembers the brilliant fireworks, how she had embraced the nightlife with all it had to offer, laughing amidst her friends.

They had been happy.

Molly makes up her mind. To Hupperdook. She wants to find her friends. And there, she thinks, is the best starting point. She doesn’t know how long it’s been, how long her friends have been without her.

She _needs_ to find them. She _will_ find them.

She strides down the road, finding a strength in the moonlight that bathes her in its pale glow.

 _Moonweaver,_ she prays, _guide my steps, lead me to my friends. To Yasha, to Jester, to Nott, to Beau, to Fjord, to Caleb. Guide me back to them._


End file.
